John Lescroart - The Motive

"That's because I am a lawyer, Catherine. And I don't know if there's even a case here, much less if I'm prepared to take it on. If they discover some evidence and you become a legitimate suspect…"

She shook her head, stopping him. "It's not about the evidence, Dismas. It's about Inspector Cuneo."

"How's that?"

"I made him mad and now he's out to show me I wasn't going to get away with it." "With what?"

An hour later, Hardy had the whole story from Catherine's point of view, as well as she could piece it together. She believed that her accusation of Cuneo's sexual advances was at the base of everything that had happened up to now, and took the position that the search wasn't so much about evidence as an example of pure police hassle. She had no idea why her clothes might be important. Readily admitting her concerns about the family's future finances, especially if Paul and Missy were to marry, she also told him about her conversations with Glitsky. Finally, they'd exhausted everything she'd brought up and decided to take a break.

Without any conscious decision, Hardy had spent the hour asking questions, giving answers and generally acting as though he was already, de facto, taking the case.

In the kitchen, she brewed up a pot of decaf and they crossed over to the table in the breakfast nook. Hardy slid in on the bench and sipped at his coffee as she lowered herself onto one of the chairs. "This is just so strange," she said quietly. "How many times do you think we sat like this either at your place or mine and drank coffee and did homework together while it was dark outside?"

"A lot. But I'm not sure I remember much about the homework."

"No. We always did homework before." Hardy felt the "before" hanging in the air between them. Then she said, "That was the rule. Don't you remember? We were such serious students."

"We were?"

"Listen to you. Mister never got a 'B'?"

Hardy shrugged. "I got some 'B's. Especially in college. But grades weren't what I put my energy into, anyway."

"I know. I remember where you put your energy."

Hardy's mouth twitched and his eyes flicked across at her, then away. "They were good times." He brought his cup to his mouth and sipped. "Do you realize that my daughter's as old now as you were then? Is that possible?"

"What's her name?"

"Rebecca."

"I love that name. Does she have a boyfriend?" "Going on two years. Darren. Nice kid." "Are they serious?"

"Probably. They'd say they were, anyway, first true love and all that."

"You sound cynical."

"I'm not. They just don't really have a clue yet."

"Like we did?"

"No. We didn't either."

"I thought we did." She scratched at the table with a fingernail. "I thought we had it all." "Maybe you did. I didn't."

"I think you did, even then. You were always so good with who you were, so together."

He snorted. "Together. There's a word you don't hear a lot of anymore. If I was so together, how did I fall so completely apart?"

"How about your parents being in a plane crash? You think that could have been a life-changing event?"

"I guess it was."

"You guess?"

Hardy shrugged. "Well," he said quietly, "whatever it was. In any case, I'm sorry. I was a shit to you."

"You weren't really. You just dumped me, that's all."

But it was the only way Hardy had been able to do it. He had had the excuse of his parents' death so that he could keep at bay his own guilt over wanting to end it with Catherine. He was sorting out his life and had no time for a relationship, especially such a demanding one as theirs. The truth was that he had simply grown tired of the dramatics, the narcissism, the omissions. ("I never said I wouldn't see anybody else when you went to college.") But he also knew that if he allowed himself to get back into her presence, the physical connect might make him weaken. So without a word he'd just dropped out of her life. In retrospect he knew that she was what he'd had to abandon to get to where he'd come now, to where he needed to go.

But now, a salve to his conscience, he said, "After three years, a decent person maybe shouldn't just disappear without some explanation."

"Sometimes maybe the decent person needs to. Maybe he needs something else."

"Still."

She reached across the table and briefly touched his hand. "Okay," her voice was gentle, "you were a shit. But you're here now because I called and said I needed you. So let's call it even."

Hardy nodded. "Even it is." He put his mug down and reached into his briefcase for a yellow legal pad and a couple of pens. "Now, at the risk of ruining our new and hard-won equilibrium, I've got to ask you a few more questions."

She backed her chair away from the table and crossed her legs, holding her mug in her lap. She wore shorts that flattered her legs and a salmon-colored, sleeveless pullover. "Does this mean you're my lawyer?"

"Not yet," he said. "Maybe not ever, if they never charge you. But either way, I'm going to clear it with my wife first. It's one of our rules. Murder cases can be hell on family time."

Catherine sat back and crossed her arms. "You've really changed, haven't you?"

"Most of us do, Catherine."

"I don't know how much I have."

"I'll bet more than you think. You've got a family, and after kids the whole world is different."

"With the kids, yes." Hardy noted the omission of Will and wondered exactly what it meant in this context, but this wasn't going to be the time to pursue it. "But assuming that your wife…"

"Frannie."

"Okay, assuming Frannie agrees, and if I become a suspect…"

Hardy shook his head. "Too many ifs, Catherine. Let's get specific. Why did you go and visit your father-in-law that day?"

"I told you. I was worried about the college money for the kids."

"I'm sure you were, but why that particular day? Had something changed? Did Paul and Missy move up their wedding day or anything like that?"

She twirled the mug before looking up at him. "Maybe it had just been building up and suddenly I needed to know for sure. And…"

"And you're trying out how that answer sounds on me?"

The tone-unexpectedly sharp-stopped her. She shot a glance at him and took in a quick breath. "No. No, I'm not doing that."

"So there was no reason? Nothing different that day from any other?"

"Like what?"

Hardy lowered his voice. "Well, for example, your husband was out of town."

"He was fishing down south."

"That's what you said on the phone earlier. So maybe you had a little more time to yourself to think about all these money issues?"

"Right."

"And you suddenly needed to know Paul's plans?" "Right." She thrust out her chin. "You don't believe me?"

"I'm just asking you questions and listening to how you answer them, Catherine. How are you and your husband doing?"

"Fine." The defensiveness unmistakable now. "We're fine."

"No problems?"

A pause, then. "Everybody has problems, Dismas. Nobody's perfect."

"I didn't say anybody was. I asked about you and Will."

Her eyes went to the doorway, then looked Hardy full in the face. "We're not great."

He leaned in toward her, his voice barely audible.

"Catherine, nobody's indicted you yet. Maybe they never will. And maybe you're completely, factually innocent…"

"I am. I didn't do any…"

He raised a palm. "But if they do arrest you, if you wind up going on trial for these murders, you won't have any secrets. Everything comes out. And getting surprised in the courtroom is the worst bad luck you can imagine."

He drank coffee. When he spoke again, his tone was more conversational. "But as I say, there's no indictment yet. We're just covering some possible contingencies here tonight. So we'll leave you and Will for the moment. Let's talk about Paul Hanover. Did you know he owned a gun?"